


Goodbyes

by therealraewest



Category: The Property of Hate
Genre: Gen, Theorizing, i have no excuse for this honestly but i'm posting it before mod crushes my headcanons, shameless angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2019-03-25 01:10:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13823295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therealraewest/pseuds/therealraewest
Summary: RGB has learned when, but is still figuring out how to say goodbye.





	Goodbyes

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this, forgot about it, then got reminded bc of the most recent TPoH page. Gonna go ahead and post it before everything is disproved, which is probably next page. Also I got some stealth puns in here that I'm actually pretty proud of so whoever catches those gets my eternal love and appreciation.

            He tried it a different way each time, in the hopes that maybe this time he'd discover the secret formula to a pain-free separation.

            Once upon a time he told the truth. Well, no, not entirely. He told as much of the truth as his cowardly tongue would allow, and usually ended up so twisted in his own words that neither he nor his companion could ever fully lay them in a straight line again. He remembered tears, he remembered screaming matches, he remembered desperate questions and bargains and urges to reconsider, as if the decision was up to him and him alone. Once, it was just the quiet rumble of voices, a conversation between friends that ended in one of them plaintively looking over the horizon and remarking that at least the view was beautiful. That was the best of all of them, and yet the memory of it left a sharp pain in RGB's chest where a heart might have been, and if he were forced to relive each and every goodbye he'd ever said, that would be the one he would dread the most.

            The process reminded him, oddly enough, of a conversation he'd had once over tea, beneath a tree frozen over with crystal icicles. All the same elements had been in the explanation. _It's not you, and it's not even who you're turning into, but you're turning into something and because of that we must part ways now or risk hurting ourselves further._ That particular conversation hadn't gone well either.

            His current strategy wasn't perfect, far from it in fact. But it had only taken being shot at to teach him he'd rather not be present for the realization. Of course, it made later reunions much trickier, but a problem pushed to tomorrow was one less problem for today, and he was already too often drowning in problems.

            The worst part was when he could see it coming, and he always saw it coming.

            Humans had an annoying habit of pretending nothing is wrong when it was in a desperate attempt to delay the inevitable. Denial, secrecy, pride; whatever the cause, it was always a pet peeve, especially when he knew in an instant that they had changed while he was looking the other way. Sometimes it would be a small thing, a pair of pointe shoes purchased in the market that made a heroes feet much sharper than they rightly should have been, or a tool belt that quickly developed into an extra limb, or the sale of two fingers for the good of a friend.

            They were always changing, and that terrified him.

            It wasn't all their fault. Humans were curious, yes, and when given the chance at bodily modification many jumped at it, but to be fair, the simple act of arriving in this world had made them not entirely human. It was true what he said, that they could not return, that they were not the same and would never be the same again. The act of entering, of existing - it changed you, as it always would. The longer a hero lasted, the more at-risk they became. It was the nature of the world to change a person, and he himself had fallen victim to the changes so often that he hardly noticed his own design shifts until he caught sight of his own reflection and didn't recognize who he'd become. Each time he saw himself he was different - rounder, boxier, sharper. Antennas grew and shrunk, colors saturated, faded, rearranged themselves constantly. He figured his heroes had the same problem, and thus he tended to avoid reflective surfaces past their first day.

            He was staring at his current hero, trying to picture what she'd looked like when he'd first seen her. He conjured the scene in his mind, her sitting up in her top bunk, giving an enthusiastic nod. She'd been brave, inquisitive, promising. A bit delicate, maybe, but she was still a child. Had been a child. Maybe would always be a child, now. Or perhaps would become something else entirely.

            It had started with the fingers. He'd learned to not say anything when he found out, often waiting for the admission to come naturally. To scold a hero for modifying their Self without notifying him was inviting scorn and rebellion, so he let things pass by quietly in the hopes that their curiosity would be sated and they would resume being just the Hero - his blank slate savior he needed them to be. They hardly ever stopped there.

            No, thinking back, it had started before that. He'd known the moment he saw her curled in on herself that the schism wouldn't just go away. It was a gamble, a hope, a prayer to an absent creator that maybe Madras would be able to return her to her unchanged state, but the schism had stayed past the dream. Like a wound that refused to stop bleeding, it reopened at its own convenience, often mid-argument. Humans couldn't survive being pierced through, especially not that many times. He'd known again at the tree that was supposed to be dead, lifting her off a branch, pretending things would be alright even as he had proof that they wouldn't calling down at them in excitement, glad their friend was "stillalive." She'd been split down the middle, and that split would only become more pronounced with time.

            And indeed it had. From where she was lying on her side, he could see a flower blooming behind her through the widening gap in her chest. Black roots had spread from the wound, invisible under her sweater but pronounced across the yellow of her nightshirt, seen once when she'd wrung the red outer garment out after a surprise soak in a stream. The roots reached upwards, up the back of her neck, into the hair that had become fluffier and less stringy with time - now cuter and more cartoonish to suit who she was becoming. With her hair falling sideways, the nubs of what might one day become either antlers or branches were visible at her temples.

            She was changing, and be it of her own volition or the will of the world around them, there was no way to stop it or slow it down.

            It was only a matter of time.

            He stared at her as if trying to burn her afterimage into his screen. She'd be different next time he saw her, but he always recognized his heroes. They went by different names, wore different faces, but they were his. They would always be his, even after he left them. It was the cruel nature of the world, in that by his declaring them a hero he became their creator, and was responsible for everything thereafter, even if he didn't want to be.

            He was glad it was ending here. They were in the Gardens now, and he'd led her up the path that evening, relieved to have arrived in time for nightfall. She'd always seemed to like flowers, as they were the shape her dreams most often took - thin childish outlines of daisies in oranges and yellows. It was a safe place, if a place could even be called safe anymore. Beautiful, bright, surrounded by a good number of trees. Fears didn't frequent the Gardens, and even griefs could be quelled here. It was hard to be sad in a beautiful place.

            It was better, too, to do it willingly. He'd never been particularly lucky, but to have a hero torn from him, split from the frames of reality while there was nothing he could do but watch hopelessly and wait for them to turn up again, it was always the worst thing that could happen. With Tailor it had been because they'd gotten too far. With TOby, because he'd never gone far enough. With Dial, well...

            Dial had been the only one to leave RGB before he'd gotten the chance to do the leaving himself. It was hardly a surprise when he discovered his cousin's alliance with Her soon afterwards. Everyone had their own way of surviving, and if making a deal is what kept Dial alive, RGB could hardly fault him. After all, he'd done the same thing, in a way.

            Hero turned over in her sleep, and RGB held his breath until her breathing steadied back into a slow, steady rhythm. She'd been a good hero, a loyal hero. She'd done her best, and he couldn't fault her for that. Yes, they quarreled, but he quarreled with all of them at one point or another. He hoped one day she'd forgive him, knowing even as he hoped that she would, of course she would. He didn't deserve to be forgiven, but she'd do it anyway, willingly, and that hurt worse than anything. She was far too good for him. She always had been.

            There was a reason he always told them how important it was to sleep at night. Yes, it gave them a time to dream and recuperate their imagination, and keep them from burning through their energy too quickly. Plus the night was a prime time for fears and doubts, and to sleep was to pass the scariest time of the day without incident. He, however, was past the need for sleep. It was nice, yes, and having a hero nearby as a dream generator allowed him the rare luxury of a full night's sleep, but it was hardly a necessity. Nighttime was the time for monsters, after all.

            Rather, nighttime was the perfect time for a monster to slip away unnoticed, and be far away by the time the light reappeared.

            Slowly, internally blaming aching joints that he didn't have, he rose to his feet. The process drew a groan from him, a quiet, insignificant noise that drew his eyes back to the sleeping hero, both fearful and hopeful in case it caused her to stir. The girl didn't seem to hear him. Her breath and dreams went unhindered. He tried to tell himself this was a blessing.

            In another time, in another story, he might have leaned over, given her forehead a facsimile of a kiss, leaving blue ink in her bangs to remember him by, and whispered "goodbye, my Hero."

            But this was not that story, and while she would always be his, she was no longer his Hero. Instead he turned on his heel and led himself back down the garden path, a stolen key sitting heavy in his pocket and a wondering in his mind about where to start looking for his next Hero.


End file.
